Dark Side of the Rainbow
by illegal moonshine
Summary: When Albus Potter falls though the veil, he finds himself in a world where his father died as a baby, and Voldemort's reign never ended.
1. This Side of Reality

**A/N: **Ahh, to be back in the HP fandom once again. Hi guys. I'm taking an old idea of mine and redoing it on this account. Sooo, if you recognize it, yeah, that's me. Again. :D

I've mostly limited myself to DN fanfiction these past few months, so being back in HP is weird (but I was here for years!) This isn't my first rodeo, and reviews are appreciated for sure! So, yeah, for those alternate universe buffs out there, this one's for you!!!

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own Harry Potter. Only the plot to this wee little fanfiction. And this disclaimer goes for the whole shebang.

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**Dark Side of the Rainbow**

_This Side of Reality_

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"Do you mind keeping Dorlene company for a moment, Al?"

Albus shot his father a pleading, incredulous look, which Harry tactfully ignored. "I've got to check in with Kingsly, but it shouldn't take me long, Al," assured Harry, squeezing Albus' shoulder briefly in what he thought might have been a comforting gesture. It didn't work.

"Erm -" started Albus. Being stranded at the security desk with some doddering old witch was the last thing he wanted to do.

"You don't mind, do you Dorlene?" asked Harry.

"Oh heavens no, Mr. Potter! I would be delighted!" exclaimed the older witch, clapping her hands in joy. Harry flashed the old woman a smile, gave Albus a warning look, and then proceeded through the golden gates to the elevators. Albus stifled a groan as soon as he lost sight of his father in the crowd. There was no use for it. He was stuck.

Albus stood awkwardly infront of Dorlene's large desk, not really knowing what to do. There wasn't anywhere for him to sit. Thankfully, Dorlene seemed to cotton on to his predicament after a brief moment.

"Come on! Come and sit, dear!" said the woman, conjuring a chair and solving Albus' dilema. He eyed the crooked, wooden chair with some trepidation before gently seating himself. Albus sighed softly, resigned. Why did his father insist on doing this to him every time Albus accompanied him to the Ministry? And always Dorlene, too. She never even remembered who he was.

"Now, tell me all about yourself! You're Mr. Potter's second son. Alfred, right? Are you having a good summer?" asked Dorlene, leaning in excitedly.

Albus conciously stopped himself from leaning away, not wanting to appear rude. She always called him 'Alfred,' no matter how many times he'd correct her. Albus finally gave up after the fifth visit.

Everytime his father would leave him in the lobby, Dorlene would ask Albus the same questions, simply because she forgot who he was between visits, and Albus eventually began to pretend that it was his first time meeting her too, if only to avoid unnecessary confusion. His father said she suffered from some funny spell damage from the Second War, but Albus thought she was just off her rocker, spell damage or no.

"Erm, yes ma'am. Summer's been . . . good," he finished lamely. Albus hated making small talk. He was bollucks at it. James, on the other hand, seemed to posses a natural knack for it, much to Albus' chagrin.

Dorlene giggled, her wrinkled jowls bouncing. "And you're going into your seventh year at Hogwarts?"

"Sixth, actually," corrected Albus, wincing when his chair gave an ominious creak. He glanced surreptiously through the gate. How long did he have to suffer through this, anyway?

"Really? But you look so grown up!"

"Oh, well, I suppose," replied Albus, shifting uncomfortably on the hard chair. The woman obviously needed to practice her conjuring spells.

"Well, do you play that sport for you school? quid – something or other?" continued Dorlene, oblivious to Albus' discomfort.

Albus paused. Quid – something? "You mean Quidditch?"

"No, dear. I don't believe so. But it's the one played on brooms, with the hoops?"

Albus just nodded dumbly. Batty. That's what she was, but he ploughed on with the conversation all the same.

"Ah, no. My brother James plays for Gryffindor, but I never really much cared for trying out," answered Albus.

"Oh, yes, James Potter! I remember him! Such a lovely young man. He would always stop and say 'hullo' on his way to where ever those Auror recruits went. You know, back when I worked in Mrs. Hopkirk's office. I made better money there, now that I think about it . . ."

It took Albus a moment to realize that the old lady was talking about his grandfather rather than his brother.

"Er -"

"Yoohoo! Ms. Crockford!"

Albus was saved from making a response with the appearance of a tall, balding wizard with, strangely enough, one eyebrow.

"Reginald! Oh, Reggie! How are you?" gushed Dorlene.

"Fine, fine, Dorie. And yourself?" returned the man, who completely ignored the teenager sitting awkwardly in the wooden chair next to Dorlene's desk. Albus eyed the old man with interest. He hadn't seen him before at the Ministry.

"Just dandy!" and then Dorlene giggled unbecomingly. Albus coughed and looked away. He felt distinctly out of place.

"What about that sister of yours? How's Doris doing these days?" asked the man, Reginald or Reggie, as he leaned casually against Dorlene's desk.

"Oh, that old witch! Drives me up the wall, I tell you! I have half a mind to throw her in St. Mungo's ward for the incurably insane!"

"St Mungo's?! Aw come on, Dorie! Surely she's not all that bad," grinned Reginald.

Dorlene leaned forward conspirationally and lowered her voice. "Do you know who she's dating nowadays?"

"Who?" asked Reginald, lowering his voice in return. Albus silently rolled his eyes before turning his whole body to get a good look at the elevators. He was beyond subtlety now.

"Florence Minglehump!" said Dorlene with relish.

"Florence Minglehump! I can't belie – wait. Who's Florence Minglehump?" asked Reginald, rubbing his chin. The man looked like he was thinking hard.

"No, no, no! It's not a who! It's a what!"

"What?" asked Reginald, his one eyebrow rising in surprise.

"Florence Minglehump is -" Dorlene paused for dramatic effect. "- a rooster!"

Reginald gasped with the appropriate amount of shock. "A rooster?!"

Dorlene nodded emphatically. "Yes, yes! I told you she was crazy! First Albus Dumbledore and that goat, now my own sister and a rooster!"

Albus' head shot up from where he had been staring at the marble floor, willing it to magically catch on fire so he'd have a good excuse to leave.

Albus Dumbledore dated a goat?

"No, that was Alberforth Dumbledore that did - well, you know, with a goat," said Reginald, gesturing wildly.

"Really? Oh yes, I remember now. You're right. It was Alberforth," said Dorlene, and Albus sighed in relief. He was afraid his parents had been keeping things from him about his namesake.

Dorlene yawned and scratched her whispy brown hair. Albus was slightly horrified to realize that Dorlene must have been wearing a wig for her scalp and hair to move so freely with each scratch.

"So who's this strapping young fellow? He looks a bit like Harry Potter," said Reginald, seeming to finally notice that Albus had been sitting there the entire time, and that it was just a tiny bit rude to have ignored him thus far.

"Him? That's -" Dorlene paused, staring at Albus with wide, confused eyes. "William. That's William Weasley."

"Weasley, huh? I've never seen a Weasley without red hair before! How do you do? Reginald Cricket's the name," greeted Reginald, holding out his hand.

"How do you do," replied Albus, shaking the man's hand, and not bothering to correct Dorlene.

Being Harry Potter's son usually brought trouble, even if the worst of it was only a few determined papparazzi. So if Reginald Cricket wanted to think he was William Weasley, then Albus wasn't going to disillusion him of the fact anytime soon.

With introductions out of the way, Reginald and Dorlene went back to ignoring Albus in favor of sharing outrageous gossip.

After ten more minutes of hearing about so and so supposedly cheating on his third wife with a house elf, Albus gave up. He'd rather wait by the fountain. Neither of them noticed him get up.

With nothing else to do but wait, Albus wandered the atrium, ignoring the suspicious looks the guard threw him now that he was away from Dorlene's 'watchful' eye. There were only a few people in the atrium, and all of them had come from the elevators and were making their way out the building. Albus ignored them.

He checked his watch again. It had been twenty minutes since his father had gone to see the minister. There was a good chance he'd be twenty minutes more. Albus blew out a breath, and eyed the fountain that dominated the sizeable lobby, reading the small plaque at the base for perhaps the hundredth time in his life.

_All proceeds from the Fountain Memoriam will be given to the Dumbledore Memorial Trust for War Oprhans._

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a knut.

"I wish Dad would hurry up and come on." Albus threw the knut into the fountain.

He glanced over towards the elevators. A few people lingered, waiting for the doors to open, which it did, but there was no one with messy black hair exiting. No such luck.

Albus sighed, and then jumped in surprise as someone grabbed his shoulder.

"Hey, kid! No loitering! If you've got some place to be, then I suggest you get to it," growled the guard.

Albus opened his mouth, intending to tell the guard that he was waiting for his father, but thought better of it. It would surely lead to questions – his name, his father's name, etc. - and Albus just wasn't up to deal with any fumbling apologies or starry-eyed looks.

"Yes, sir," he said instead, and then made his way towards the gate, slipping through unnoticed by Dorlene, Reginald, or the patrolling guard.

"Bah. Might as well see what Granddad is up to. Surely Dad will figure out where I am," mumbled Albus to himself, pushing the button for the elevator.

The doors dinged opened, letting out a small crowd of people, and Albus entered with a platoon of paper airplane memos and a youngish looking man who nodded at him. Albus nodded back.

"What level?" asked Albus politely.

"Seven, thanks," smiled the man.

The elevator doors opened to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and Albus took in what little he could see of the untidy corridor wallpapered with Quidditch posters in interest. He hadn't visited that particular level in the Ministry for quite awhile. Maybe his father would let him sneak a quick peak before heading back home.

When Albus reached his grandfather Weasley's office, the secretary tartly informed him that Mr. Weasley was out to lunch and wasn't expected back for at least another forty minutes.

With a defeated sigh, Albus nodded, and the secretary promptly ignored him, turning back to her paperwork. Albus rolled his eyes.

He was half way back to the elevator when he was struck by an idea.

Why not check out the Department of Magical Games and Sports now? He had time to kill, and he'd only take a quick look around – just enough to see what was there, anyhow. He hadn't visited in over a year. It could have changed, and if not, at least he'd waste a few minutes.

Albus was quick to enter the elevator, and this time he was alone. With a small smile, he pressed seven.

When the elevators doors opened, Albus stepped out eagarly, only to come up short when he didn't recognize his surroundings. Gone were the Quidditch posters and paper balls littering the floor. He was in a dark, circular room, dimly lit by candles of blue fire bracketed to the walls. Black, identical doors lined the room.

Albus swallowed, hard. He knew he pressed number seven, but this obviously wasn't the right floor, so where was he?

The elevator door closed behind him with an ominous thud that echoed in the silent hall, and suddenly, the room was spinning. Albus braced his knees to keep from falling over, and just as quickly as it had begun, the spinning stopped. The elevator was on the other side of the room now.

Albus tried not to panic as he crossed to room to the elevator. The staircases in Hogwarts moved. Why not rooms in the Ministry of Magic? But his determination to keep panic at bay wavered with each push of the elevator button. No matter how many times he jabbed it, the doors just wouldn't open.

He was stuck.

Albus groaned. This was just his rotten luck! What would his father say? He wasn't supposed to leave Dorlene! And he surely wasn't with Granddad, which Dad might have mildly scolded him for because he left Dorlene without him knowing, but that was it! He wouldn't have gotten in trouble past that!

But this?

Harry Potter was very protective when it came to his children. A little too protective, if anyone cared for Albus' opinion, which many did not. If Albus really was stuck in some twirling room in the Ministry, then he didn't doubt that two minutes after his father finds him missing, the whole Auror Department would be alerted.

Albus cringed. How embarrassing.

Surely he could find his way out of here before it came to that? With Albus' luck, his little misadventure would be plastered all over the Daily Prophet by this time tomorrow. He had to find a way back to the lobby before it came to that. Albus eyed the row of doors. Maybe one led to stairs? Did the Ministry even have stairs? Well, there was only one way to find out.

His plan was good in theory, but in practice, it fell short. His first obstacle was the doors themselves. Who made doors without doorknobs? Obviously people in the Ministry did.

Albus tried to pry one door open with his fingers, but all he got for his troubles was a bent finger nail. He could take out his wand and try opening the door, but he was only sixteen and thus it would be illegal. Then again, he was stuck in an unknown room somewhere in the Ministry of Magic. That had to count as some kind of emergency, shouldn't it? A mild one, at the very least. And, besides, there wasn't any muggles around to see anyhow.

Albus pulled out his wand, and cast a well aimed 'alohamora,' which, to his surprise, actually opened the door.

"Huh. That was easier than I thought it'd be," he said to himself. Albus kept his wand out, just in case. Who knew what lurked behind door number one.

The door closed behind him, but Albus paid no mind. He was awed by the grand room he found himself in. It was a beautiful room, lit by beautiful, dancing diamond-like light, and on every square inch of wall space was a clock. There were clocks of all shapes and sizes, and most pecularly, there were old fashioned hourglasses too.

Albus turned slowly around, admiring the room dedicated to time, obviously.

"This is weird," he muttered to himself, as he picked up an hourglass that was attached to a necklace, and studied it. He didn't know exactly what it was, but it was interesting all the same.

He glanced around. There had to be hundreds of these odd necklaces.

A loud booming noise caused Albus to jump, and he almost dropped the necklace he was holding. He reached blindly into his robes for his wand, which he had foolishly put up when he realized it was only a room full of clocks.

It took him a long second to realize that the loud booming sounds was just the clocks chiming the hour. However, there were so many clocks, it sounded much more terrifying than it actually was.

Albus let out a shaky laugh, amused at himself, but his amusement was short lived.

"Oh, shit. Is that really the time?" asked Albus. He had been gone from the lobby longer than he'd originally thought.

He groaned. "Dad's going to kill me."

At least on this side of the door, there was a doorknob. Albus opened the door without trouble, and entered back into the blue lit room. As soon as the door to the clock room clicked close, the room began to spin.

"Not again," cried Albus, this time falling to the ground. He landed heavily on his side, and was surprised to hear a crack, along with a pain in his hip.

He heart seized. "Oh, Merlin! Not my wand!"

He reached blindly into his his robe, only to jerk his hand back. He blinked at the small cut on his finger. The blood welled slowly.

No, thank Merlin, that hadn't been his wand. Albus opened his robe pocket wide, so he could see inside without reaching in a feeling around. It was the hourglass necklace.

"Oh, no," whispered Albus. He must have shoved the necklace in his robe when he was reaching for his wand. He hadn't even thought about it, and now he'd broken some Ministry artefact. Merlin only knew what it was, anyhow. It could be something really rare, or expensive. He wouldn't face time in Azkaban, would he? He stomach rolled at the thought.

Well, he'd just have to get rid of the evidence then. His robe pockets were big enough to keep all the sand and glass together for now. He'll dump it when he gets home. Maybe he could bury in the woods or something.

It was about this time that Albus really _really_ wished he'd stayed home and helped his mum clean the house instead of going with his father to the Ministry.

Albus pulled himself to his feet, and determinedly aimed his (thankfully) intact wand at another door.

"Alohamora!"

. . . . nothing.

Albus growled under his breath.

"_Alohamora!_"

. . . . still nothing.

"Fine. Be that way," he gritted. He turned his wand to the next door.

"Alohamora!"

This time he was rewarded with the door creaking open. Albus squared his shoulders, and pulled it open all the way, walking in. Like last time, the door shut behind him on its own, but this time, the sound echoed ominously thoughout the vast, stone chamber he now found himself in.

"Creepy," he whispered, afraid to let his voice get any louder than that.

It was a dimly lit, rectangular room with stone tiers leading down to a pit in the center. It sort of reminded Albus of an amphitheatre. In the pit sat a raised stone dias, and on it was a large, stone arch with strange carvings. Albus assumed it might have been runes, or something to that effect. A tattered black curtain hung from the arch, and it seemed to be blowing forward slightly on some silent wind.

Albus couldn't help but be drawn towards it.

Before he realized it, Albus was in front of the strange archway, cocking his head to one side. He swore he heard something – something like whispers, but it was awfully faint. The black curtain was so close now that Albus could reach out and touch it. And what was the harm in that, anyways? Hell, he'd already broken some odd necklace. How much more damage could he honestly do?

Albus reached out his hand.

The door to the chamber slammed open, startling Albus. He twisted his body towards the door, but his feet tangled together, and he found himself falling backwards. He tried to grab for something – anything – and reached for the veil, but trying to grasp the black veil was like trying to grab water. It slipped through his fingers.

He caught a glimpse of the chamber filling with red robed Aurors, and the sound of his father's yell echoed against the stone walls and through Albus' ears.

"_ALBUS! NOOO!"_

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**A/N: **Ahh, that feels nice. I love posting a new chapter. :D

Sooo, yep. There we have it. It starts getting exciting next chapter. Obviously. And **I would sooo love to hear what you, my dear reader, thought about this first chapter.**

**SAY SOMETHING!**


	2. Crossing the Bridge

**A/N: **I like writing. It's a lot of fun, but man, time sure does fly by while I'm doing it.

Thanks for all the awesome reviews! And please, if your reading, review! They encourage me to update! :D

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**Dark Side of the Rainbow**

_Crossing the Bridge_

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Albus coughed, and then blinked open his eyes.

The black veil fluttered innocently above his head. Albus squinted, trying to ignore the pounding pain in his head, as he attempted to remember what the hell had happened.

Wait . . . didn't he trip? Didn't he fall through the archway?

"Oi! What are you doing down there!" yelled a gruff voice.

Albus sat up gingerly, and watched with some trepidation as none other than Stan Shunpike stomped up the stone dias.

"Erm -"

"This here is the Department of Mysteries, boy! How'd you get in here?!" demanded Stan, who reached down and jerked Albus to his feet.

"I, uh, thought I was going to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but the elevator left me off here, and then it wouldn't open back up, so I thought I'd try and find the stairs," explained Albus in a rush. It was the truth, after all. But it sure didn't explain where the Aurors had gone, or where his dad was, or even why Stan Shunpike, who Albus _knew_ was the conductor of the Knight Bus, was wearing a Ministry guard uniform and holding him by the scruff of the neck.

"You got off at the wrong floor, eh?" asked Stan, scrunching his brows. "That's the third time this week elevator's been acting off."

Albus let out a silent breath he hadn't even been aware he'd been holding.

"Uh, yeah. Can I go now?" asked Albus, wincing as his head gave a particularly unpleasent twinge of pain. His cut finger was stinging too. He'd kill for a potion just about now.

"Well, I suppose so. But you ain't going to visit level seven today, laddy. I'll escort you out of the building, see? And then you can come back tomorrow. Where's your parents anyway?"

"Home. They're at home," said Albus, and he wished he sounded more convincing to himself, even. He didn't know about Stan.

"Well next time bring a parent with you, kid. Then maybe you won't get lost."

And with that, Stan led Albus back to the spinning room, which still spun, but this time Albus didn't fall. He noted ruefully that as soon as Stan pushed the button for the elevator, it dinged open.

"So what's your name, kid?" asked Stan, who stood twidling his thumbs.

"Al," tried Albus. It was close enough, and his family called him that anyways, but until Albus figured out what was going on, he wasn't about to start blabbing. The last thing he remembered was falling through the veil, after all.

"So, Al, you like Quidditch?" asked Stan.

Albus was about to say that he never cared for it as much as his brother, but then realized that might sound suspicious considering he told Stan that he had been trying to find the Department of Magical Games in Sports, which was true, but it was probably best to sound like a die hard fan.

"Oh, yeah. I love Quidditch. It's the best game ever," tried Albus, hoping he sounded enthusiastic enough. He was a terrible actor.

But luckily, Stan wasn't terribly bright. "Yeah, I used to play when I was a kid. Now I just mostly watch. Who's your favorite team?"

The question caught him off guard. "Erm, well, I really like – The Cannons?"

Stan laughed. "You have pretty bad taste, kid. They haven't won a game in over a decade!"

Albus chuckled, uneasy. "Yeah, I guess not."

The elevator opened to the lobby, which looked wholely the same as before he'd left it, and Stan gave him a cheery wave before the elevator doors dinged shut.

The first difference that Albus noticed as he made he way through the gate was the security desk.

Dorlene wasn't there.

Instead, a grumpy looking wizard sat behind what had been Dorlene's desk, reading a magazine on what appeared to be horticulture charms.

"Um, excuse me, sir?" asked Albus.

"Hmm?" grunted the man, not even bothering to look up from his magazine.

"Where did Dorlene go?"

"I don't know anyone by the name of Dorlene."

"Well, this is her desk . . ." trailed off Albus.

The man looked up. "Son, this has been my desk for over seven years, not 'Dorlene's.' Now beat it. Can't you see I'm busy here?"

"Err, sorry," said Albus, stepping away from the desk.

It was then that the fountain, that he had only just thrown a knut in not an hour ago, was different. Vastly different.

"What . . . the hell?" whispered Albus, walking around the fountain in disbelief.

This was not war memorial fountain. This fountain depicted a wizard and witch standing tall, while a dwarf, a house elf, and a centaur gazed up adoringly at the pair. For this reason, Albus thought his Aunt Hermione would probably hate it.

However, this was just another difference added to the long list Albus was making. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

Albus could feel it again, slowly building – panic. Where the hell was he? What happened? Had he fallen through the veil? Yes, he did remember falling. And he remembered the Aurors. He remembered his dad. But where were they? Where was Dorlene? Why was Stan here? What happened to the the fountain?

And where the hell was he?!

Albus took a deep breath, because he knew if he didn't he'd hypervenilate. His head was already in enough pain, and his vision was wobbling. He must have hit his head harder on the stone floor than he first thought.

Someone bumped his shoulder, causing him to jerk forward.

"Oh, sorry there! I wasn't watching where I was going. You okay?" asked a pleasant, baritone voice.

Albus turned. "I'm fin – Dad?!"

The man blinked, seemingly as taken aback by Albus's appearance as Albus was of the man's. Yes, the man looked extraordinarily like his father, but there was enough difference between the two for Albus to immediately realize his mistake.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. You just look a lot like my dad," apologized Albus, sweeping his hair through his fingers. It was a nervous habit he had picked up from his father.

The man continued to stare at Albus as if he was seeing a ghost, and Albus had to catch himself from fidgeting.

"Erm, excuse me," he murmured, side stepping the scarily familiar looking man.

"Wa – wait!" exclaimed the man, catching hold of Albus' arm.

"What's your name?" asked the man, an almost desperate edge creeping into his voice.

"Al," responded Albus, eyeing the man warily.

He seemed to deflate. "Yes, yes of course. Of course. For a moment there, I thought – Well, it doesn't matter."

Albus shook himself free from the man's grasp, and he would have left, if his damned curiousity hadn't gotten the better of him, but he really wanted to know who the man was that looked so much like his father.

"What's your name?" asked Albus.

The man grinned, all the shadows that had haunted his eyes previously seemingly disappearing. "James Potter, at your service. I'm an Auror."

Albus felt his jaw drop, and he didn't have the mind to close it. James Potter? As in, James Potter? His dad's father? That was impossible. James Potter was dead, had been for decades, but the resemblance . . .

And the fountain . . .

And Stan . . .

Dorlene . . .

"I think I'm going to be sick," murmured Albus, and the pounding pain in his head won over his conciousness as he slipped to the ground.

James' eyes widened. "Woah, buddy, don't -"

James caught the young man in his arms before he could reach the the marbled floor.

"Merlin's beard. Hey! Hey Jeffreys! Come give me a hand!" yelled James, catching site of a fellow Auror.

A blonde wizard ran up to him. "What'd you do to him, James? Knock him out?"

James glared. "No. He just collapsed. Give me a hand, would you?"

Jeffreys grabbed the boy's other side. "Where we gonna take him, Potter?"

James sighed. That was the million galleon question then, wasn't it? He really should just drop the kid at St. Mungo's and be done with it. That was the best solution over all, but . . .

James took another look at the familiar, messy hair. And those green eyes . . .

"My wife's a Healer. If you help me get him to the Floo, I'll have her take a look at him," said James.

Jeffreys shrugged, or attempted to as best he could underneath the extra weight of the boy. "Fine by me. Do we know where the kid's parents are?"

James shook his head. "No, but he needs medical attention first before we cross that bridge."

"You mean before _you_ cross that bridge. I'm just helping you to the floo," reminded Jeffreys.

"Yeah," agreed James absently, as he stared down at the boy. He didn't look much older than fifteen, at the very most. Fifteen . . . that's how old Ha -

"Here you go, Potter. You got him from here?" asked Jeffreys as the transferred all the weight to James.

"Yeah, thanks. Do you mind throwing the floo in for me though?" asked James, nodding to his arms, which were busy holding up the boy.

"Sure," said Jeffreys, and threw in a pinch of green powder.

James stepped in, mindful of how he held the boy. He didn't want the kid to knock any limbs against the fireplace.

"Godric's Hollow!"

A quick, swirling moment later, and James stumbled out of the fire, wincing as his foot caught the edge of the carpet. He gave a strangled yelp, thoroughly expecting to land face down with the boy in his arms, but stopped, his face inches from the floor.

"James! Who do you have with you?"

"Thanks for catching me, Lils," breathed James, relieved that his wife was quick with a wand.

Lily waved her wand, and James was up right once again. He layed the boy out on the living room sofa, careful not to be too rough as he put him down.

"I met him in the Ministry. I think he's injured or sick – something, I don't know, but he passed out right in front of me. I thought you could take a look at him."

"Well of course I can. Back up, James. I don't know why you just didn't take him to St. Mungo's though, but I can -" Lily stopped short.

"That's why I didn't take him to St. Mungo's," said James soflty.

Lily covered him mouth. "Oh my God. He looks just like you."

"Yeah, I know. And his eyes . . . he has _your_ eyes. Emerald green – _just_ like yours."

" . . . James, it's not him. It _can't_ be him. We buried him fourteen years ago."

"I know, Lils. I know. But look at the kid! If he was alive right now, they'd be identical. There has to be something going on here, Lils. I just know it," determined James.

"James -"

"A paternity potion. You can see if there's any relation."

"It's illegal to take the blood of a minor without the parent's permission, James," shot Lily, finally turning away from the boy to glare at her husband.

"Not if we're the parents," James quickly assured.

Lily's eyes welled. "James, we aren't the parents."

Something sharp prodded his heart at those words. "Lily, if there's even the tiniest bit of hope -"

Lily turned away. "Fine. It'll take me an hour to brew the potion. Let me check him over first, and then I'll get started."

"Thanks, Lils," he whispered.

"Don't thank me yet, James Potter. This is pointless. It's only going to cause us more pain."

"And that's pain I'm will to put us through if we at least know for sure," replied James, pulling his wife into a hug.

"Wha – What if it is . . . him. What if it is Harry?" whispered Lily into his chest.

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just as we will if he's not."

"My baby died fourteen years ago. It's not him," said Lily, her voice soft, as her eyes wandered over to the silent figure on their sofa. James follow her gaze. The boy looked remarkably like a Potter. That was obvious, but _Harry_ Potter died at the hands of Voldemort when he was only a baby.

But there was just something about the kid . . . James wouldn't give up until he figured it out.

"Here," said Lily, breaking away from his embrace and deftly wiping her eyes. "Let me get started."

James nodded. "I need some tea. Want any?"

"Sure," said Lily absently, already waving her wand over the prone figure and casting a series of diagnostic charms.

James took his leave to the kitchen while Lily stared down thoughtfully at the young man. Her curiousity overcame her sense of decorum, and she gently pulled back on of the boy's eyelids. She drew in a quick breath. James was right. The eyes were the exact shade of hers. She took another look at his hair, then his face. If her son hadn't grown up to look just like this young man, then she couldn't even imagine what Harry would look like.

Lily tried her best to set aside the turmoil that raged in her heart as she continued to prod the boy. He had a cut on his finger that was easy enough to heal right away after she had collected a small amount of the paternity potion, but the slight concussion worried her. He'd need a potion for his head, and it was pure luck that Lily still had some in her potions cabinet. The concussion explained how the boy had lost conciousness. At least it wasn't something more serious than that.

She was quick enough to spell the potion in his system, just like she would do with any prone patient, and she was even quicker to leave for her potions lab.

She met James in the hallway.

"Here. It has honey in it," said James, handing her the warm cup.

"Thanks," she murmured, taking a sip. "Don't you have patrol tonight?"

James nodded. "Yes, but I won't have to leave here until seven."

"Plenty of time for me to brew that potion then," remarked Lily ruefully.

"That's what I was thinking . . . " James trailed off. He looked worried. "Lily -"

"It's okay. I'm fine. I want to know just as badly as you do, but I can't afford to get my hopes up. I just can't afford to. Harry's dead. He's _dead_, James, and nothing can bring back the dead," said Lily, turning away from him.

She left him standing in the hallway.

* * *

It was the second time that day that Albus found himself blinking his eyes open, but this time, he was lying on something decidedly more comfortable, and his head wasn't pounding like a rogue dragon pulzerizing his brain anymore.

However, as he sat up gingerly and took a look around, Albus couldn't decide if he was in a better position or not.

The walls were a different color. He didn't recognize the furniture. Hell, it even smelled different in here. The scorch mark that his sister had put into the carpet was gone, and the fireplace was on the wrong wall, but Albus would recognize his living room anywhere. This was his living room. He was home, at Godric's Hollow, but . . .

. . . did his mum redecorate or something?

Thoughts of his mother led to thoughts of his father, which then inevitably led him back to the Ministry. What had that been about? He remembered the strange archway with the fluttering, whispering black curtain. He rememebered Stan, and that strange man at Dorlene's desk, and -

"You're awake!" exclaimed a voice. Albus jumped, twisting his head to the doorway.

And he rememebered James Potter.

"Oh, Merlin. Did I die?" asked Albus to himself, staring wide eyed at the man who, now that he thought about it, looked strikingly familiar to the man who graced a few photos on the wall of his hallway at his Godric's Hollow.

The man blinked at him. "That's a good question."

Albus' eyebrows rose in surprise. "It is?"

"My wife's upstairs trying to figure that out as we speak," said the man – James – _whoever_, while giving Albus an odd look.

Albus ran his fingers through his hair nervously, his mind whirling. "Yeah, okay. Dead, huh? That would explain a few things -"

Albus broke off. If he was dead, that would explain why his grandfather was alive, why everything was so different, at least. But when did Stan Shunpike die anyway? He was the only person he knew here, so did that mean the Knight Bus finally crashed and Albus hadn't heard the news?

"You think you're dead?" asked James, sitting in the armchair catty-cornered from the sofa.

Albus shifted uncomfortably. "Erm, well, maybe?"

"Why do you think you're dead?" asked James, quirking his head slightly in confusion.

Albus hesistated. Did people here not know they were dead? "You're here," he said bluntly.

James' eyebrows rose in surprise. "Me? You think I'm dead? Do you even know who I am?"

Albus laughed, and hoped that the man didn't catch the tinge of desperation it carried. "I should think so."

James opened his mouth, no doubt wanting Albus to elaborate, but it was at that time that a pretty, auburn haired woman stuck her head in the doorway. Albus' breath caught when he saw her, and he scolded himself for being so surprised.

Lily Potter's eyes widened when she saw him, and she smiled hesitantly.

"James, mind if I borrow you for a second?" she asked, but her eyes never left him.

James agreed, somewhat hesistant, but left all the same. Albus heard their footsteps clunking up the stairs, and he took some small comfort in the fact that the second to last step sqeaked just as badly as it did at his Godric's Hollow.

* * *

**A/N: **I liked how I switched POVs in this chapter. I didn't blantantly tell you, but I thought it was easy enough, and the flow seemed better.

**SAY SOMETHING!**


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